The Memory Thief
by ObsydianDreamer
Summary: Here's a small fact: Time and Death will steal away everything. In the end, people fade away, and so do memories. USUK.


AN: America and England are in an established relationship. Also, this story does not relate to any of my other fics, including _His Mockingjay_, or the Everlasting Stars Universe.

Also, I'm experimenting with a new writing style. The style, along with the near constant mentions of fate and death, were somewhat inspired by Markus Zusak's amazing book, _The Book Thief_. Hopefully my attempts at a new style aren't atrocious.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

**The Memory Thief**

By ObsydianDreamer

* * *

**_A Small Fact Number One:_** Everyone, everything, everywhere, fades and disappears eventually.

It is the inescapable fact of the universe. The fickle mistresses, Time and Death, take away everything, ruthlessly stealing from people when they least expect it. Eventually, they steal away everything, from everyone, leaving them broken, defeated, and ultimately, they too are taken.

But they are not cruel. They are just, taking from all equally.

Mortals pay with their lives, departing when the Fates decide that their time is up, but it's not so simple for nations. Time's most potent weapon, age, has no effect on them, meaning that Death cannot take them by conventional means.

The death of a nation is a rare occurrence; only arising when their people cease to identify with their country. Sometimes it happens quietly, nations slipping away in a peaceful slumber. Other times, the nations go out in a blaze of glory, with bloody revolutions and violent battles.

Centuries pass, and Time and Death cannot take their lives. So instead, they steal their memories.

Piece by piece. No matter how hard they fight, how much they beg, it's all snatched away.

Until there is nothing left.

* * *

**_A Small Fact Number Two:_** The day the United States of America died was a chaotic one.

The sky was the colour of blood, with thick black smoke from the burning buildings spilling into it. Craters from shells and bombs littered the battle-torn landscape, leaving the area decimated. Gunfire could be heard in the distance, as the defending army tried to fight back. The once-great nation known as the United States of America may have been pushed right back into the fringes of his territory, but he was fighting back as hard as he could.

But deep down, even thought he was never going to admit it (he was the hero, after all, and heroes never give up!), he knew he was fighting a losing battle. The new nation was just too strong, too ambitious to be beaten.

And so, years of vicious fighting had led to this: a final stand in the former capital of the United States. The last of the troops rallied, preparing for the final assault that the invading army would throw against them. They were brave; they were going to fight for their country until they, themselves, died.

But really, the victor had already been decided long before the conflict had started.

This was America's last battle.

England tried not to think about it as he lay beside America, snuggled closely to his chest. The two of them were lying quietly under a tree, as far away from the commotion as possible. He was fairly certain that America was asleep, his eyes closed and his chest moving up and down in a quiet rhythm. He had a slight smile on his face, and looked peaceful; the impending battle not dampening his spirits.

The sight made England smile as well. It was so like America to be happy all the time, even in the darkest of situations. Carefully sitting up to avoid waking him, England continued to watch over America, committing every detail about him to his memory while he still could.

He wanted to remember the feel of his embrace, strong and comforting, and the way his hair fell on his face, framing it perfectly.

He wanted to remember his bright smile, the sound of his voice, and the way it always declared that he was "The Hero".

He wanted to remember his sky blue eyes, and they way that they managed to reflect the values of freedom and liberty that he held so dear.

He wanted to remember and never forget.

But England knew better. He knew that with nations living as long as they did, memories grow hazy and eventually disappear entirely. He'd even noticed it happening to himself – his memories of anything before the middle ages were becoming hazy and fragmented at best. Even worse, memories were lost exponentially; the more time that past, the faster and faster memories were taken.

It wasn't fair. They'd fought so hard, the two of them, for the happiness they shared. It may have been tough, but despite the occasional misfortunes and miseries, they had never been happier. No matter what the world threw at them, they stood side by side, always coming to each other's aid. Together, they were unstoppable, unbeatable.

Or, so they had thought.

All of that was about to be taken away forever.

Blinking back tears, England took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to keep his composure. Politically, there wasn't really any reason for him to be there. The United Kingdom had backed the United States at the start of the conflict, but had long since withdrawn their troops. England himself decided to stay behind, determined to be by America's side until the very end. And as much as he hated it and wanted to deny it, he knew the end wasn't far away.

England was jarred from his thoughts by an unexpected voice and a question.

"You won't forget me, will you?" America asked quietly, obviously not so asleep after all. He blinked his eyes open slowly, looking deep into England's emerald-green eyes, searching desperately for an answer.

"Never, I promise. We share too much history for that to happen," England replied, reaching out to hold America's hand as he spoke. The answer seemed to satisfy America, who smiled weakly as he slowly sat back up. He seemed to struggle a bit; England noticed that America was looking very pale and sickly.

_"This can't be happening! He can't be dying!"_ England thought, trying to find something to say. _"Not yet..."_

"You can't start thinking like that!" He finally managed to say, rather desperately. "You can still win this-"

"England. Please," America cut in, stopping England from speaking, and turned his head up, so that he was looking England straight in the eyes. For a moment, it looked as though he would continue to speak, but the words were lost before they could be spoken.

England realised that this was one of the few times in America's life where he had been left completely speechless. Unable to articulate what he wanted to say, America tore his gaze away from England's and stared at the ground, a defeated look washing across his face.

It was wrong, seeing him look so broken like that. America was supposed to be perpetually upbeat and cheerful, not downcast and miserable. Edging forward, he wrapped his arms around America, pulling him into a close embrace. Feeling him relax slightly, England spoke.

"I know how dire the situation is, but just promise me you'll try."

"I promise. I'll fight 'til the end," America replied, his voice reassuring. "I am the hero, after all."

America was starting to act more like his normal self, and England couldn't help but smile a little. "There's the man I fell in love with."

He turned to face America, before leaning forward and kissing him softly. America responded instantly, and passionately.

For the briefest of moments, time felt like it stopped.

There was only the two of them, and he forgot about the battle that was about to happen, and that America was going to leave, this time forever. It was a moment of pure bliss, seemingly unending, almost infinite, and unaffected by anything else in the world.

The illusion was shattered by the deafening sound of an explosion in the valley below. Breaking apart, America turned, looking back toward the city.

The fighting had started up again. The advancing army had started shelling the front lines again; the remaining factions of the American army regrouping and responding with rapid, intense gunfire. Smoke and debris was swiftly obscuring the horizon.

They were completely out of time now.

Both of them knew it, but neither wanted to accept it, neither wanted to say goodbye for the last time.

Instead they embraced, uttering last words of love. Tears pricked at England's eyes as he committed every single moment of their last meeting, their last embrace to memory, determined to always remember.

No matter what happened, he never wanted to forget.

* * *

**_A Small Fact Number Three:_** The thievery of England's memories would be slow, but certain and absolute.

Five centuries had passed since that fateful day, and the once powerful nation known as the United States of America had been absolved, reduced to mere notes in a history book. All of the people who had once been citizens and their descendants were long since gone, their own stories brushed aside and forgotten.

People live and die, but the nations have no choice but to carry on.

With the hundreds of years England had continued to live, came thousands upon thousands of new memories. Most of them related to politics; his relations with the other nations, disputes between themselves, and wars and battles he'd been inevitability drawn into.

Not to mention all the issues and problems that occurred within his own country.

While these facts and figures were important, England still treasured his memories with America far more. Whilst he still felt the hurt and loss of no longer having his lover – his soulmate – by his side, he still found comfort in the fonder memories. They were his sanctuary; a place to retreat to when things became too much.

But as time passed by, England found that his recollection of these precious memories were becoming weaker and more indistinct.

No longer could he remember the exact conversation the two of them had had that day, under the tree, before America left for the last time. The exact colour of the American's eyes and hair had evaporated from his mind as well; he knew that America had blue eyes and blond hair, but he couldn't recall the exact shades.

It was just as he had feared all those years ago; he losing America a second time, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

* * *

**_A Small Fact Number Four:_** As time wore on, it took more and more of his memories.

It was now a full millennium since his love had died, and England's memories of him were eroding away faster than sand through an hourglass.

Time had taken away so much, yet still wanted to take more. In the centuries that had passed, it seemed like even history was forgetting that he had ever existed. Encyclopaedias made vague mentions of a nation that was once the most powerful and influential of its time, but had fallen from grace, eventually being taken over by a newer nation.

Not only was England forgetting the nation, but the person as well. No longer could he recall what his lover had looked like, despite his best attempts to try and remember. The sound of his voice had disappeared too.

The thing that troubled England most though, was the fact that he couldn't remember his love's name. Once, long ago, he knew that they had shared the same language. But his version of the language died with him, whilst the English language continued to expand and evolve.

Without a name, it seemed more and more like his love had never existed at all.

Sometimes, he wondered if it was for the best. If the memories disappeared, he reasoned, then so would the pain.

However, for that to happen, he would need to completely forget; his mind, however, persisted in torturing him with flashbacks. They were never anything substantial; a smile here, or a place there, sometimes he even remembered a sentence his love had once told him.

It was too cruel, the island nation often thought. Time was taking away the dearest thing he had, yet leaving him just enough to know that he was losing something of irreplaceable value.

He was stuck in between, yet he knew, if given the choice, he wouldn't rid himself of the memories. Long ago, the person had meant everything to him, and it was infinitely better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

* * *

**_A Small Fact Number Five:_** Eventually, the time came and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland itself fell apart.

It was a full fifteen centuries since his love had died, and now England was sure he was only minutes away from seeing him again.

His country was in complete disarray. The previous government of his nation had been a tyrannical dictatorship, making life impossibly hard for the working class. After decades of hardship, they were rising up, and overthrowing the government.

England was proud of his people, proud of their inner strength, even though the resulting anarchy and civil war meant his almost certain death. He knew he couldn't survive this; people no longer believed themselves to be part of the United Kingdom, and thus, no longer believed in him. And since he no longer had people to represent, death wasn't far away.

He could feel it coming for him; a cold but ever-present shadow waiting just behind him. Scars covered his body, he no longer healed, and there were times where he found it difficult to breathe.

But his time had come, and he knew it. Tens of thousands of rioters were storming the palace he and the ruling elite resided in, wanting blood.

England could feel himself get weaker. His knees gave out from under him, and he felt dizzy and lightheaded. Before he knew it, he was lying on the ground, having to fight for each breath.

His vision turned dark at the edges, and his heart slowly began to slow.

His last thoughts were of better days, and a lover he couldn't quite remember.

* * *

**_A Small Fact Number Six:_** When the newly renamed Republic of Britain woke up, he had no memories of his past life.

Opening his eyes slowly, he adjusted to artificial light that brightened his room. He was in a hospital, with clinical white walls and the sterile smell of disinfectant. Machines were connected to him, no doubt monitoring him and keeping him alive.

Relaxing back into his hospital bed, Britain tried to remember what had ended him up in this place. His mind just drew blanks though, and he realised he had almost no memory of his past life.

He knew he was a nation by the name of the Republic of Britain; he was a representative of his people, and thus because of that he would not age.

Everything else was a blank though.

At that moment, there was a knock on his hospital door, and a well-dressed man walked in. He was reasonably tall, with long, dark blond hair that fell to his shoulders.

"Ah Angleterre, it's so good to see you awake!" the man chimed. "You were pretty close to dying, but it seems you were too stubborn to give up."

The man seemed to know Britain, yet he knew nothing about the man. Curiously, he asked, "I don't mean to be rude, but do I know you?"

The man's smile disappeared. "Almost three millennia of history between us and you remember none of it?"

"I'm sorry," Britain replied, feeling a little bit bad for not knowing the man. "It's nothing personal; I can't seem to remember much of anything."

"So you remember nothing?" The man asked. "Just try, try to remember something."

With the man's persistence, Britain once again tried to remember, going into the deep corners of his mind, trying to find something, anything. Mostly, it was just mental blocks of black nothingness, except this time, he found something vague.

There was a face; it was hazy, like he was seeing it from a distance, but he could make out two sky blue eyes and a beaming smile. A single sentence came along with the memory.

_I love you._

"Do you remember anything?" The other man asked again, startling Britain out of his concentration.

"No," he said, lying. He guessed that the other male wouldn't be interested in the memory he'd found. "I know I'm a nation, but nothing else."

"You should talk to Germany," The man suggested. "A similar thing happened to him many years ago. His country was destroyed, but he was reborn as a new one, with almost no memories of his past life."

Britain nodded. That information could be helpful.

"Since you don't remember me, I'm France," The other nation named France said. It was obvious that he was hurt by not being remembered, despite trying his best to hide it. "I'm your closest neighbour, and we've been allies for most of our modern history."

Silence descended on the room, neither of them really knowing what to say next. In the end, France broke it. "They'll keep you in observation overnight, but you can go home tomorrow. See you then, Britain."

And with that the other nation left, leaving Britain alone with his thoughts.

He tried to remember more of the last memory, replaying it over and over in his head, trying to find something new. Hours passed like this, but he never found anything more, only finding the sky blue eyes and the whispered words.

_I love you._

He needed to remember. Whoever this person was, they were important. Something in his heart told him that this person meant more to him than life itself.

The small hospital room suddenly felt suffocating. Disconnecting himself from the machines, he left his bed, walking to the nearest window and pulling it open. A gentle breeze came through, and Britain stared out into the clear night sky, the stars shining above.

He remembered nothing of his past.

He didn't remember his nation, his history, or even his allies. Yet, for whatever reason, he retained faint memories of _them_, this person who loved him.

He needed to find them.

Britain had nothing; the only memories he had were of sky blue eyes and the knowledge that someone, somewhere loved him.

He knew one thing though; that he was going to search every corner of the earth until he found them again.

"I will find you." He whispered to the stars, determined. "Even if it kills me."

**_A Small Fact Number Seven:_** He meant every word.

* * *

**AN: Well, that was depressing to write. I worked on this for over a year, but kept getting stuck with the dreaded writers block. I hope it wasn't too bad, especially with the new writing style.**

**As mentioned earlier, ****_The Book Thief_**** by Markus Zusak was an influence, although another big influence while writing this was ****_To The Moon_****, especially the song from the soundtrack, ****_Everything's Alright_****. I highly recommend both the aforementioned book and game, although if you're anything like me, you'll cry throughout both.**

**I wanted to get this as good as possible, so I had quite a few people look this over. Thanks to Lily Icerem, Ozzie Liber-Tea, Tanya Meridia and Baylee Shadow for beta-reading.**


End file.
